


Chicago Denied

by WPAdmirer



Series: Chicago Stories I [6]
Category: ER, X-Files - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-21
Updated: 2011-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-15 19:56:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WPAdmirer/pseuds/WPAdmirer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, Walter didn't go back to DC, but all is not well in Chicago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicago Denied

**Author's Note:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTES: I got tired of waiting for some good John Carter slash, and there's never enough Skinner fic to suit me.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: It's not the author's intention to infringe upon or profit from the characters created and owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions or the Fox Network, nor Warner Brothers and NBC. Skinner and Carter were borrowed temporarily and returned almost immediately.
> 
> SPECIAL THANKS: To KiMeriKal and Crysothemis for beta reading and friendship.

Things had been crazy in the ER all day. Apparently Thanksgiving day families spent eating. Friday they spent shopping, and Saturday they shot each other, stabbed each other, beat each other senseless, and other variations on that theme. The paramedics had been in and out of the ambulance bay so many times, John was thinking of checking to see if they had string on them like a yo-yo. He had no idea how many pairs of gloves he'd gone through, but he'd been forced to change into scrubs after a drunk with a fork in his forehead had vomited all over him, and then into a second pair of scrubs when a six year old, who'd been half-brained by his eight year old sister and a wooden chair, had vomited all over him.

His last case of the day had been an eighty year old woman who'd granted her husband's dying wish of one last cigarette. Neither of them had realized it was his dying wish, but then neither of them had considered the fact that he was tethered to an oxygen tank the size of the Sears Tower. It had blown the woman out of the room and left her with second and third degree burns over half her body. It was John's understanding the husband's charred remains could be fitted into a large garbage bag.

John had his coat on over the scrubs and was trying to get signed out quickly before someone could think of any reason to keep him. He heard Jerry calling his name as he headed for the doors. He pretended not to hear, but Jerry was not as tired and moving faster. He caught John just outside.

"Carter, a guy came by and left this for you."

Jerry held out a white legal size envelope. John's heart constricted when he saw the bulk in one corner. It was simply addressed 'John Carter.'

"Big guy, bald, glasses, long black coat?"

"Yeah. I told him you were busy and he didn't want to wait. Hope that was okay."

John nodded afraid to trust his voice. He took the envelope and held it. Keys. He could feel the keys in the corner of the envelope.

"You okay?"

John shrugged and turned away.

"Night," Jerry called out after him.

John didn't want to look. He couldn't look. He gripped the envelope tightly and walked up to the El. There was no one around. John sat on a bench and stared at the white envelope. Walter's clean, square print was so like him. Neat, precise. He took a deep breath, turned the envelope over and opened it. The two keys for the dorm dropped out into his palm. "Fuck." There was a note. John pulled it out and a small plastic square dropped out of it onto the ground next to the bench. John ignored it and read the note.

'John Carter, I hate your room. My room number is 686. Use the key. I'll be waiting. Walter.'

The key! John looked down and grabbed up the small plastic card. Sure enough, a magnetic strip ran the length of it on the back. The name of the hotel was on the front. "Yes!" John shouted, leaping to his feet. He did a happy little dance. He looked down the tracks. Where was the train? It was already past eight. He had to get back to his room, pack some clothes and get to the hotel. He paced a little back and forth, then found himself doing the happy little dance again. He wants me, he wants me, he wants me, and I want him! John sang the little chant inside his head.

Where is that fucking train? He looked down the tracks again. Nothing. No one around. It was like the world had come to a standstill. "Shit." Suddenly John shook his head and took off running down the stairs back to the street. Fuck the train. He'd get a cab. He'd go to his room, have the cab wait while he packed. It wouldn't take but a minute. Throw his shaving kit and a change of clothes into his backpack and he'd be set. He'd be at the hotel in thirty, forty-five minutes tops.

He was in luck. A cab was just pulling away from the ER ambulance bay when he hit the street. He flagged it down and jumped in.  
***

There was no sound coming from the room. John stood in the hallway, shifting from one foot to the other, not sure if he should knock or use the key that was in his hand. He was still wearing scrubs and he hadn't shaved or brushed his teeth. It occurred him that maybe he should have taken the time to shower, put on some clean clothes. He probably smelled bad. He'd cleaned up after both vomiting episodes, but that was the kind of thing that lingered. He was so used to it in the ER that he didn't notice it. Much. Well, yeah, he could smell it, but he'd learned to kind of tune it out. Ignore it.

Either open the fucking door or knock, but do something you stupid prick! The voice in John's head was both persistent and rude.

John took a deep breath and ran the key down the card slot. The light on the door plate showed red. "What?" John ran the card down the slot again, but it still showed red. John pulled Walter's note out of his pocket. It said room 686. This was room 686. The key didn't work! Fuck! John ran it through the slot again. Third time's charm, he thought. The light showed red again.

John almost kicked the door in frustration. Knock, you idiot! The mood of the voice in his head was not getting better. John knocked on the door. The silence on the other side continued. John knocked again, pressing his ear against the door to see if he could detect any noise. Maybe Walter was in the shower. There was nothing.

"Shit!" John kicked the door in frustration. This was the right room. The number was right. This was the right hotel. The fucking key didn't work, and Walter apparently wasn't there. John looked at his watch. It was almost nine-thirty. It was possible that Walter thought he wasn't coming and had gone somewhere. It was late. Where would he have gone? He wouldn't have checked out. He just checked in. But he might have gone downstairs to get something to eat. That was possible. If he'd waited for John to show up to have dinner, he was probably starving by now.

John started to turn and head back to the elevator when the door swung open and Walter stood there, without his glasses, his collar undone and sleeves rolled up. "You're here!"

Walter frowned at him. "Where else would I be?"

"I knocked. You didn't answer. I couldn't hear anything."

"I fell asleep."

"Oh! Well, I'm sorry I'm so late."

Walter stepped back into the room and John followed him. It was a suite with a small living room and the bedroom set off to one side. John glanced into the bathroom. It was huge, with a nice big shower. He smiled.

Walter sat down on the couch. "I'm sorry I didn't hear you."

"Don't worry about it." John dropped his backpack into a chair and went to the couch. He sat next to Walter, reaching out to touch one of his thick forearms. "Have you eaten?"

"No."

"Want to order room service and go to bed early?"

"No."

John pulled his hand back.

Walter sighed. "I'm not awake, yet. I had a drink, a couple of drinks, and I'm fuzzy."

John nodded. "Okay. Maybe I should shower or something."

"Go ahead."

John slid his coat off his shoulders and dropped it onto the couch. He picked up his backpack and took it into the bathroom with him. There were two doors, one into the living room and the other opening into the bedroom. John closed both. He stood and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked tired. His face was thin and he had deep circles under both eyes. His hair was dirty and hung in lanky clumps. His beard needed trimming. And green was definitely not his color. It made his skin look even more pasty than normal. He pulled off his shirt and looked at his white chest. Oh, yeah, he thought, that ought to drive Walter wild. He could count his ribs, he had virtually no hair on his chest. He was tempted to turn off the light and shower in the dark He was just depressing himself by looking into the mirror.

No wonder Walter was being so distant. If some stinky, scrawny guy dressed in dirty scrubs had shown up at his door, he'd be less than enthusiastic, too.

He turned his back to the mirror and stripped off the rest of his clothing. He stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain. In a moment he was lost in the sensation of hot water beating against his neck and shoulders. God, it had been such a long day.

"John Carter?"

John almost fell he was so startled. Walter caught him, holding him up until he got his feet back under him on the tub's slick surface.

"I didn't mean to frighten you."

"I was kind of lost in thought."

"I noticed."

Then John realized that Walter was naked. His eyes opened wide.

"May I join you?"

John nodded dumbly and Walter stepped into the shower, immediately making the space seem half its original size. He stepped into the spray, turning his head and letting the water run down his face. After a moment he pulled away and shook his head, running his hands across his features, brushing away the water. He opened his eyes and looked at John.

Walter reached out and John felt himself being drawn in, cradled against his broad chest. The feel of his warm skin and its mat of hair made John want to sink into him, become part of him. Walter's hands rubbed his back, kneading the knotted muscles between his shoulder blades, smoothing the skin past his waist to his buttocks.

One hand slipped between them and John felt it seek out and grasp his penis. He leaned into it, loving the sensation of the hot water running between their bodies, down the funnel of Walter's hand across his genitals. Walter squeezed gently and John groaned, raising his head to capture Walter's mouth. The smell and taste of scotch was almost over-powering. Walter had had more than a couple of drinks.

John pulled back, feeling frightened of the big man for the first time. Walter's hand closed tighter on his penis.

"Where are you going?"

"Are you drunk?"

Walter stared at him, then blinked and nodded. "A little."

John tried to pull away. "Walter, let go."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know."

Walter released his hold and John stepped out of the shower and began to dry off. He picked up his dirty scrubs and started to put them on. Walter's hand reached out and took them from him, handing him a thick terry cloth robe instead. John put the robe on.

"We need to talk."

"Can you?"

The silence hung between them like something thick and hard. John took the scrubs out of Walter's hands and stuffed them into his backpack. He took out his shaving kit and found his toothbrush. He didn't look at the mirror as he brushed his teeth. He knew that Walter was standing behind him. He knew that Walter was still nude, his beautiful body glistening with water.

The shower cut off and John heard Walter get a towel from the rack next to him. "Let's order some food."

"That's a good idea."

John took his backpack and left the bathroom. He deliberately exited by the door to the living room, avoiding the bedroom completely. He set the pack in a chair and grabbed the room service menu, and dropped onto the couch. Several minutes later Walter came out of the bedroom. He had put clothes on.

"What would you like?"

"Doesn't matter. Food." John handed Walter the menu. "Order whatever you want and get me a sandwich or something."

Walter took the menu and went to the phone. He ordered two prime ribs, baked potatoes, steamed vegetables. Coffee to drink. He dropped the menu on the desk and turned to John. "Drunks some kind of button for you?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

"Why?"

"Why did I get drunk?"

"Yeah."

Walter dropped John's backpack onto the floor and sank heavily into the chair. "Sometimes I just do it."

"That's not much of an answer."

Walter shrugged.

"Are you trying to make me not want you?"

Walter shook his head. "No."

"When do you usually do this?"

"When I don't know what else to do."

"I confuse you that much?"

Walter shook his head again. "You don't confuse me at all, John Carter. That's the problem."

"I don't understand."

"I have never more clearly understood what I want. I also know that to have it is impossible."

"You want me."

"I thought that was obvious."

"You can have me."

"I've already explained why that's not possible. At least as well as I can."

"Maybe it's worth it to be with you."

"That's straight out of Romeo and Juliet. They were fourteen years old, you know. You're an adult. Act like one."

Suddenly John was furious. He threw himself at Walter, knocking him from the chair. He pinned Walter to the floor, his knees pressed against thick thighs and his hands holding biceps to the carpet. The smell of alcohol was not as thick on Walter's breath. He'd brushed his teeth. His dark eyes were surprised, and without his glasses more vulnerable, softer.

"You cowardly fucker! You come into my life and you change it. You change me! I think you're gone and you come back. Now you're drunk and feeling sorry for yourself, and I'm supposed to understand. I'm supposed to let you fuck my body and fuck with my head and fuck with my heart and goddamn it, I am not going to let you do that. I am not a child. I am a man. I am your equal, you got that? If you walk out of my life again, don't you ever come back. Don't you ever call me, don't you even fucking think about me, because I will know. I will know and I will hate you for not having the courage to take a chance on me. I understand, damn you. I understand that there is something so fucked in your life that it could get me killed. I could also die tomorrow in a car wreck. I could get stuck with a needle in the ER and die of AIDS. I could fall in the fucking bathtub and break my neck. We all die, Walter. It how's we fucking live that counts. It's what we do, what we have, what we get that fucking counts."

Walter seemed stunned. Then his eyes hardened, grew darker, almost black. "Get off me!" He spoke through clenched teeth.

John got up, stepping away to the couch. Walter stood up and walked into the bedroom. The door slammed so hard that the picture frames on the walls rattled. There was a knock at the door and John jumped, his heart racing. It was room service with the meal. He signed for it, and took the rolling cart himself, bringing it into the room. He didn't know what to do. He uncovered one of the plates and the smell of prime rib made his mouth water. The only thing he'd eaten all day was a cold bagel and two slices of pepperoni pizza he'd snitched from Jerry.

He debated with himself for a moment, then reasoned that Walter couldn't eat both. So he set a serving down on the desk and pulled a chair up. He poured himself a cup of coffee and began to eat.

He'd been at it less than a minute when the bedroom door opened and Walter filled its space. John waited in silence. Walter walked into the room, pulled a chair to the table and sat down. He took the second serving from the cart and put it in front of him. Then he poured himself a cup of coffee.

They ate in silence. The food was excellent. John noted that Walter drank four cups of coffee. He was going to be up all night pissing. Caffeine was a diuretic.

"You ought to drink some water. You're going to be dehydrated tomorrow."

Walter looked up at him and deliberately poured a fifth cup of coffee.

"Go ahead. Have a hang-over. Spend the night pissing. What do I care?"

"Aren't you afraid I'll keep you awake?"

John looked at Walter. He'd put his glasses back on, and his eyes were once again unreadable behind the reflection on the lenses. "Am I sleeping here tonight?"

"If you want."

John set his fork down and stared at the remains of his dinner. He had to find a way to make Walter understand this. "Will you let me talk to you?"

"I think you've said enough."

"Have you changed your mind about us?"

"No."

"Then I haven't said enough."

Walter dropped his fork into his plate and placed his napkin on top of it. "This isn't getting us anywhere. We're wasting precious time that we could have together before I leave."

"You think I don't understand what it's like to be the one left behind. The one who feels responsible. That's not true. You've got three deaths on your conscience and so do I. We're exactly even. One of them was your wife. Well, one of them was like my brother. I lost my real brother to leukemia when I was a kid. He was ten. There was nothing I could do. I pretty much lost my family with him. My parents have run away ever since. They're always in some other country or on a boat somewhere in the middle of the ocean. Anywhere but home where there was this empty room that used to be Bobby's. I didn't have much of a family, but I had Chase, and I had Gamma and my Grandfather, and most of the time that was enough. Now I don't have Chase and I don't have a family. He's not dead, but he should be, and it was me that brought him back to this fucking half-life he has now. So don't you dare talk to me about not understanding what it's like to be the one left behind, the one who is responsible, because I know that feeling every day of my life."

Walter didn't respond. He sat with his elbows on the table, his hands together, fingers laced. His head down.

"Have you ever sat with someone who was dying, Walter? Sat down beside them and listened to them talk about it? When people talk about their regrets, it's never about risks they took. It's always about the chances they didn't take. When someone's dying the important things are who they loved and who loved them. Not how much money they made. Not how much they achieved in their career. It always comes down to family, lovers, children. The people they cared about. If you walk out of my life, I won't be the one with regrets about what happened. I'll have good memories and I'll know that I did everything I could to be with you."

Walter stood up and walked to the bedroom door.

"Besides, who's to say it won't be you they kill? They might never find out about me and they kill you."

Walter stopped in the doorway. "I can't make any decisions tonight."

John nodded. "That's probably a good idea."

Walter raised one hand and held it out to John. For a moment, John held his breath, just taking in the image of Walter standing in the doorway, lit by the yellow light of the lamps, his face open and full of need and his hand out-stretched asking. John got up and went to him.

They kissed tenderly, John letting Walter take possession of his mouth. For someone so large and so strong, he was the most amazingly gentle person John had ever known. He could have easily over-powered, but he didn't.

"Come to bed, John Carter."

John nodded, and Walter led him into the bedroom, closing the door behind them.


End file.
